Display Case
by Era-Age
Summary: Hawke knows that her mother suffers from Bethany's death and Carver's occupation as a Templar, and is willing to do whatever it takes to put a smile back on her face. But by listening to Leandra's nearly every wish, she realizes that she may have more in common with a certain Tevinter elf and discovers that there is more to the broody ex-slave than what meets the eye.
1. Chapter 1

Bioware owns everything save this fanfiction :)

* * *

"She's always been strong, even when she was just a little girl. She'd always be there to protect her brother and sister, my dear Carver and darling Bethany." Leandra sighed and delicately placed her teacup back in its saucer. "She always chose not to listen, too. Oh, I just wish I could have taught her how to be more ladylike when she was still little. Her father had such an influence on her, though; she took pride in being Daddy's little girl."

Leandra's guest—Thomas, he'd called himself—placed a sympathetic hand over hers. He gave her an encouraging grin. "Leandra, dearest, you cannot blame yourself for the path your daughter has chosen. I've never met her personally, but from what I hear from Hightown's finest, she is a remarkable young woman. You should be proud to call her yours."

Leandra made a weak attempt to smile and gave Thomas' hand a weak squeeze. "She's done much good for Kirkwall, hasn't she? I'd prefer it if she didn't spend so much of her time in the company of Lowtown's... occupants."

Occupants, indeed, as most _occupied _without paying taxes.

"She has a reputation to uphold," Leandra said firmly, as if to convince Thomas. "She's an Amell, after all. And to only add to it, I believe she's falling for an elf."

"An elf?" Thomas scoffed. "A knife-ear? Your daughter? That is absurd, Leandra, I am _sure _she has enough sense to know that he is far beneath her to even consider as a husband!"

Hawke clenched her hand into a fist, contemplating whether or not to barge into the dining room just to give this 'Thomas' a piece of her mind. The idea seemed most appealing, especially when Thomas ventured to add another comment.

"Does she not know that elves either live in the Alienage or carry out their lives in slavery?"

She was about to turn the handle on the door and tie Thomas' tongue in a knot, but her mother's chuckle stopped all action.

She was _happy. _Thomas, her mother's consort as of late, made her _happy. _Hawke blew out from her mouth and crossed her arms. Her mother had been through so much: first Malcolm's death, then Bethany's from that terrible ogre, and then Carver leaving to join the Templars just to spite his older sister. Leandra deserved a reward for what she'd endured over the past four years, and Hawke was adamant that she'd be given a proper one.

And if Leandra found a companion and enjoyment in Thomas, she'd refrain from lighting his arse on fire.

For the moment.

"You haven't seen him, Thomas," Leandra continued. "He's... well, he has these... _markings—_lyrium, I think."

Thomas' eyes widened. "Lyrium? In his skin? He isn't... a mage, is he?"

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. Just what she needed after another _lovely _chat with Fenris: _more _talk of mages and a lyrium-branded elf. Just the thought of him sent a whirlwind of anger and confusion throughout her entire body.

The Holding Caves were cleared out, all the blood mages put down and gone from the world. Hadriana, one of Fenris' tormentors, was dead. The battle had been a brutal one. Hawke was still learning a lightning based spell from Anders and almost electrocuted her fellow mage on accident. The look he'd given her when she almost singed the tips of the feathers lining the shoulders of his coat was almost comical—had the situation been any different, of course.

She was more focused and deadlier with flames. Her ability to conjure fire was well practiced, as it fed off of her anger. And she had plenty of it, mostly at herself.

Perhaps that explained why she and Fenris had acted out on fury after the battle. The thrill of combat was still coursing through their veins when she tried to reason out Hadriana's gruesome death, and she had struck one of the prickly elf's seemingly few nerves. Anders had goaded and encouraged her to support mages and their plight, and she wasn't certain that if Varric hadn't been there—bless that vertically challenged man!-Hadriana wouldn't have been the only one to have had her heart ripped from her chest.

Then he'd run off, spewing Arcanum beneath his breath, probably swearing her to the Circle and back. Or not back.

She'd looked for him in Kirkwall after convincing herself enough that he had every reason to harbor such hatred toward mages, even if admitting that was equivalent to stabbing herself repeatedly. She'd checked his mansion, the Chantry courtyard, the Hanged Man, and Lowtown's docks, though he'd often complained of the foul stench.

She returned to her estate, still covered in sweat, grime, and blood from the Holding Caves, to find him sitting rather comfortably—that damned elf—in her foyer, not caring that he'd stained the cushions of his seat with Maker knew what from his armor.

Oh, and how _lovely _that conversation went. Fortunately, not too many vicious words passed between them before she kindly escorted him out, her mabari close at his heels. Nearly two weeks had gone by, and neither of them had seen hide nor tail of the other.

And now this. Her mother, gossiping with dear Thomas. Hawke, deciding that staying in her estate just to listen to her mother spread rumors would be a waste of time, turned on her heel to finally be rid of the Hawke Estate's choking atmosphere.

_Hawke Estate, _she thought bitterly, _sure. _

"I just wish she was more like Bethany. Oh, she was such a sweet girl, and feminine, too."

Hawke stopped dead in her tracks. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, keeping herself from bursting through the dining room door and giving her mother and Thomas a few choice words. But she knew that if she did that, there'd be a confrontation waiting for her when she returned home, and she was in no mood to listen to her mother's scoldings.

Forcing one foot in front of the other, she marched out of the Hawke Estate, certain that once she was in the Hanged Man, her mood would improve considerably.

* * *

And it did.

She sat with Varric, Isabela, and Merrill, picking at a plate of questionable food. She wasn't sure if she was eating bark or meat, it was so terrible.

But it was better than eating supper in the presence of Thomas and her mother while plastering on a fake smile to satisfy Leandra.

"You should have _seen _her, Hawke. Oh, the look on her face was priceless. She was all red in the cheeks and hair flaming! Even those freckles were on fire. Anyone could have seen that Captain Man Hands wanted to throttle me one, but with Donnic there, the struggle to remain civil in front of him was _de-licious!" _Isabela laughed and slammed her mug of ale down on the table.

Hawke almost choked and cleared her throat. "Maker, I'd forgotten all about Aveline and Donnic!"

"Well, she didn't forget about you," Isabela said with a cat-like grin on her face. "She must have been cursing the name 'Hawke' all the way back to Kirkwall. Probably scared away whatever raiders Merrill and I might have missed. But I think just a glance at her on a normal day would turn them back, scurrying to their mothers' skirts for shelter." Isabela gestured for Norah to bring over another round.

Hawke groaned and kneaded her temples. "I expect Aveline will want a proper excuse as to why I didn't show."

Isabela leaned back in her seat, aware that other patrons had their eyes on her and seemed to bask in the attention. "I wouldn't be so hasty to pay her a visit, if I were you."

"Why's that?"

"Well, according to Isabela," Merrill said, her cheeks flushed from the ale, "the strange sounds coming behind Aveline's office doors made it quite clear that she was preoccupied. I wonder whatever with; it was quite loud, you know."

Varric hid his laughter in his mug while Hawke fought the urge to slap her forehead.

"What? Did I say something wrong?" Merrill looked between her friends, her face an oblivious sheet of innocence. "Was it something dirty? I never quite understand the dirty things, even if they aren't dirty or things—am I making sense?"

Isabela wrapped an arm around Merrill. "Perfect sense, kitten. Did she make sense, Varric?"

He chuckled and scratched at his nonexistent beard. "Enough sense to write down, if that's what you're getting at, Rivaini."

"You're still serious about publishing a novel about my adventures?"

He snorted and gave Hawke an incredulous look. "You caught me, Hawke. The real reason I picked you and your brother's sorry, nug-bitten bottoms was to bore myself to tears and eventually grow three more feet—"

"Just what exactly will be doing the growing?" Isabela purred.

"Isabela," Hawke sighed. Merrill let out a hesitant giggle, not sure what her friends were discussing. Perhaps the ale made her a bit tipsy. She wouldn't be surprised.

"You see, Hawke, that there is your problem. You aren't thinking big enough," Varric continued.

"And we do like to think big, now don't we?" the pirate mused aloud.

"A novel describing you will be Thedas' next best-seller! You'd be surprised how many people fawn over literature and obsess over textual heroes."

Isabela drained another mug. "Not to mention other things books inspire people to do—what?" She smirked at Hawke's unimpressed expression. "Oh, come now. Haven't you ever read a bodice-ripper when you were younger? Andraste's arse, don't you _still _read them? I can't imagine you having any fun in that estate of yours—not with your mother pecking away at you."

"Tell you what, Hawke." Isabela leaned over the table, earning several whistles from the Hanged Man's gentlemen. "You get that lanky elf of ours to... _glisten... _and I'll put words from those delightful books into action. What say you?"

"But Fenris doesn't glisten," Merrill interrupted. She frowned, confused. "Well, not exactly, I mean. He glows and gives you that stare—I call it the Dread Wolf Stare—that says he's going to tear your heart out in exactly three seconds."

"Rivaini, I think you just spoiled dinner," Varric whispered so that only Isabela heard. Both pirate and dwarf saw the sour look pass on Hawke's face from mentioning him. There were few things that openly upset Hawke, and the elf was one of them. They cleared their throats, struggling to find a way to change the topic, when Hawke looked about ready to set the table on fire.

"Oh! Wait, we were talking about books, yes?" Merrill chirped. Varric and Isabela turned their heads toward her, an uncommon amount of interest in their eyes that Merrill was too oblivious to think suspicious. "The Alienage was having a sale in the morning. One of the older elves was cleaning out their house, and had mountains and mountains of books to sell. I never knew that books could rival Sundermount's height, could you? I would have gone over to see what they had, but I was tangled in my twine."

Merrill looked pleadingly at Hawke. "I don't suppose we could go there now, just to see if they have anything left? Maybe they have something about the Dalish or an elvhen trinket or—"

"Oh, kitten, you come up with the smoothest ideas," Isabela said as she stood abruptly, practically tipping over the table.

"See, Hawke, now you can find out for yourself the power of a compelling story," Varric chuckled as he hoisted himself to his feet. "I'll even be the gentleman escort for you ladies this evening."

Merrill's eyes widened. "But won't Bianca be jealous? Sometimes I feel a bit nervous just by talking to you, Varric. Is there a limit to how much female presence you can have before she starts shooting bolts at us? I don't think twine will help me against Bianca."

"Don't worry, Daisy," Varric smiled, "Bianca knows to put the claws away time to time."

Hawke watched as they stood and gathered at the Hanged Man's entrance, and quietly noticed that they'd left her to pay for their meal. She sighed, leaving a few silvers for Norah and Corff to bicker over, and let a babbling, happy Merrill pull her to her feet and lead her to the Alienage.

At least there was one elf that wasn't broody.


	2. Chapter 2

Bioware owns all, save this story.

* * *

"I hope they didn't sell out already. The twine's been very useful, Varric, but I can't see myself bringing it with me all the time if I just tangle myself in it—or maybe it tangled me? Oh, and I should mention that I had to cut it to untangle myself. You wouldn't happen to have any more, would you?"

Varric smiled as he walked abreast with Hawke. For her part, Hawke felt content to let Isabela and Merrill take the lead. It was oddly refreshing not being the leader of her little troupe of misfitted fighters.

Hawke leaned toward Varric and whispered, "You're just tagging along so you won't have to escort her home or have your extravagant network of resources navigate for her."

The dwarf smirked and shook his head. "Hawke, I am wounded that you think so lowly of me."

"So I was right."

"And you're just tagging along to distract yourself from our delightful Tevinter elf in hiding."

Hawke faltered in step, but quickly squared her shoulders and resumed her pace. She shuddered and balled her hand into a fist. "You know what they say about assuming, Varric."

"Doesn't mean that I'm not right," he smirked.

"Well, don't concern yourself with it. I haven't seen him for days."

"And I wonder why? Surely the dwarf's extravagant network of resources had nothing to do with that."

Hawke frowned, then softened her face into a small grin. "You take pride in meddling, don't you?"

"I take pride in keeping my friends from ripping each other's throats out—literally."

They stopped in the Alienage's courtyard. Merrill was still babbling away with Isabela, providing more than enough cheer for them.

"Oh, it looks like they're about to close," she sighed. "You don't suppose he'd be willing to stay open for just a few more minutes, do you? The Dalish have a saying about people who show kindness to others—"

Hawke placed a hand on Merrill's shoulder before making her way over to the small stand of wares. The elven couple was putting their items away in crates. She recognized the symbol on the crates to be that of the Viscount.

"Excuse me, Messere," she started, "but I don't suppose you'd let us browse your goods?"

Isabela smirked.

The elven man looked up at Hawke through thick white eyebrows. He had laugh lines at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were pale with wisdom and age. His wife, who seemed just as elderly as he, give or take a few years, nodded in answer.

"Please, forgive my husband," she explained, taking his wrinkled hand in one of her own. "He is unable to speak, serah. We were just going to close, but I think we can manage a few more minutes."

Hawke smiled, finding the elven woman refreshing. Besides Merrill, this woman was the first to not sling the word 'shemlen' at her in insult.

"These are of elven heritage, yes?" Hawke briefly looked over what items still remained on the shelves, mindful of Isabela's and Merrill's excited chatting. From what she could tell, the pirate was curious to see if there were any books of a sensual nature for sale, and Merrill, well. Merrill seemed happy just to recognize something elven that wasn't tainted by Kirkwall.

"They are. These are from our youth," the elven woman explained, giving her husband a warm smile. "We're aware of our age, serah, and we both agreed that it would be a waste to let some of our culture die with us."

"Hence the stand full of elven doodads," Varric mused with a snort. "Funny thing, really. You never see dwarves selling anything from our culture. Well, besides black-marketing lyrium. But what can they sell? Their beards?"

"Or chest hair," Isabela added without diverting her attention from an engrossing novel.

"Rivaini, you should know already that this," he motioned to his chest, "is priceless."

There were bits of elven jewelry that Isabela took interest in, and Merrill explained them to her as best as she could, given that the pirate was too busy fussing over which necklace made her assets seem that much more appealing.

Varric was keeping his eyes on Merrill, making sure that the clumsy elf didn't break anything with her bubbly mood.

"These are about elven history," the elderly elf explained. She piled a few books in front of Hawke, noticing that the woman had an eye for knowledge instead of adornments. The elf looked Hawke over, seeing the interest spark in the young woman's eyes as she flipped through the pages.

"Are they all detailing the Dalish?" Hawke looked over at Merrill. Merrill had managed to pry Isabela away from the jewelry and was explaining an oddly shaped trinket to the pirate wench.

"Most, yes," the elf nodded. Her husband turned to rummage through the books they had already packed away. After a moment, he pulled one out and set it on the stand.

Hawke looked it over. "Shartan? The elf who helped Andraste free the slaves?"

"Yes," the elf replied. "This one took us a while to find. The Imperium made it their duty to destroy these books, as you can only imagine the hope it'd spark in slaves. A pity, really. We've always been city elves, and we cannot imagine the life of others of our kind that had to endure slavery."

Hawke grimaced. "I've been told of how difficult their lives have been." Oh yes, she'd been told one too many times.

The elf wore a sad look. "I'm afraid 'difficult' does not fully cover it, my dear."

Feeling guilty of the change in the elderly elf's mood, and also frustrated that even in the Alienage, a place where Fenris absolutely detested, his infuriating presence still haunted her, Hawke bought the book.

It was a small price, but she had left a few more silvers than what the woman had dictated necessary. Hawke thanked her for her time before dragging her friends away from the stall, but not without making sure Isabela gave back whatever jewelry she had hidden in her cleavage.

"One more thing, if you don't mind," Hawke offered just as she was about to leave. "What are your names? I'm sorry, I feel foolish for not asking in the first place—"

The woman held her hand up and chuckled. "There is no need to apologize, my dear. I am Iomes, and this is my husband, Golben." She blinked in surprise when Hawke shook their hands.

"A pleasure to meet both of you, Iomes, Golben."

Varric smiled and nudged Isabela. "There goes Hawke using that charm again. And you wonder how she has all of Hightown wrapped around her finger. More or less."

Isabela bumped him back and crossed her arms. "And just whose finger is Hawke wrapped around then, hm?"

"The lady of the house, no doubt," Varric mused.

* * *

"Mother, is this absolutely necessary at the moment?" Hawke frowned and flinched away from the needle in Orana's hand. The elven girl was doing well in her second week as her servant. Hawke had encouraged her that she would be treated as an equal and receive payment for her work, and had unintentionally left the poor girl stunned. She'd stared at Hawke in shock for several minutes, her mouth fumbling to form words, until Hawke had spared the dear and smiled to mercifully end the conversation.

Leandra, on the other hand, was suspicious of Orana. Just where did she come from? And why did her daughter have to bring home an _elven slave? _As Leandra had told her daughter, "Isn't one slave enough for you? Now you offer our home to them, too?"

Hawke had taken a deep breath to calm herself before she reasoned out her excuse with her mother. Leandra seemed skeptical still, and had to put full faith in her that she knew what she was doing. But her faith in Orana had yet to be seen.

Leandra huffed and crossed her arms. "Yes, this is necessary at the moment. Since you've been running off for the last month, you haven't had any time to try on your new gowns."

Hawke inwardly groaned, certain of what was to come.

"You are an Amell, Marian," her mother continued, not seeing the subtle crease in her daughter's brow, "and are expected to act like one. With all the brigands and Maker knows what else you kill for fun, it would do you good to have a taste of noble life."

"Oh yes," Hawke snorted, "the 'taste of the noble life'. Does that include sitting on my rump all day with criminals on the loose, waiting for someone else to dirty their hands and save the day? I heard that Orlesians are particularly concerned of any dirt lingering under their fingernails."

"Maker's breath, girl," Leandra scolded. "I should have taught you the proper way to speak." Hawke opened her mouth to retort, but Leandra shushed her and turned her scrutiny over to Orana. "And Orana, hurry up with that seam; you've been at it for far too long already."

Orana's shoulders jerked as she hunched and tried to hide herself in her body. She barely managed to squeak out, "Yes, Mistress."

Hawke made a disgusted sound and put on a reassuring grin for the elf. "No, Orana, you take all the time you need. I'm sure Mother," she shot a glare at Leandra, "will understand."

"And I'm sure my daughter knows better than her mother," Leandra said tersely. "I think it's very unbecoming of you to be this unfair to your mother, Marian. You are free to do whatever you please most of the time, and you cannot even spare just an evening trying on dresses for me to hem? Maker, child, whatever did your father teach you."

"He taught me to stand on my own two feet," Hawke replied. "And that's nigh impossible if I have to wear Orlesian heels, Mother."

"You will learn in time. But now, you still have three more dresses to try. I've been attending social gatherings and meetings and whatnot, trying to find you a suitable husband. Now, I haven't decided yet which one I like the most—"

"_Husband?" _Hawke squawked, accidentally frightening Orana to fall back on her haunches. "Mother, I told you I'm not interested in a husband! I've work to do, Kirkwall to serve, the Viscount at my back, the Qunari to deal with—"

"Which is why you need someone suitable to stand by you and support you! My dear, you are almost in your thirtieth year. You're past the ripe age for marriage, and I'm afraid that if it weren't for the Amell lineage in your blood, you'd be alone." Leandra looked away and wrung her wrists. "Dear girl, I don't want you to have no one to have in your life. I won't be here forever, and Carver is at the Gallows."

Hawke sighed and stepped down from the small stool. She walked toward Leandra and stopped her from wringing her wrists any further.

Leandra looked at her daughter and placed a hand on her cheek. "My girl, I just don't want you to make the same mistake I did—fall in love with a man without a title, elope with him, never to return to see her parents. I want you to have roots in Kirkwall."

_Having a place where you can put down roots. I understand._

Hawke swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Even here, in the sanctity of her own home!

"Mother—"

"It's just, you've grown up so fast. And with everything that's happened over the past four years... I just want to give one of my little girls a chance at happiness." Leandra's face fell as she fought back tears. "I only wish I could have done the same for Bethany."

She relented with a soft sigh and squeezed her mother's hand in hers. "It would... make you happy if I did this? If I made an appearance at these social gatherings and looked for a... suitor?" She almost choked on the word.

"It would, darling. But by no means will _you _look for a suitor! That is highly unladylike and preposterous of nobility. No, you leave that part to me. I've already arranged a dinner with Seneschal Bran's son. Raydin seems like a good man, Marian, and he is only a year or two older than you. I am sure you will find something in common with him."

Hawke felt something inside of her curl up and shrivel—perhaps it was her dinner at the Hanged Man. Seneschal Bran was a scheming rat of an aristocrat. If it wasn't for the abundance of wealth he'd received from his job as Viscount Dumar's chief adviser, she knew that he'd be looking elsewhere for a career. It was no secret that he despised being second in terms of politics, and she had high suspicions that Dumar sent her to speak to the Seneschal so often just to prevent himself from having another headache.

It was strange how she'd become involved in the Viscount's little game of political chess. Strange, but interesting.

Hawke's shoulders sagged as she asked, "When is the dinner scheduled?"

Leandra's smile was fit to bursting.

* * *

The book of Shartan lay untouched on her desk as she stretched out on her covers. She wanted to read the book as soon as she returned home, but those dresses! Maker forbid she not try them _all _on, and did her mother even know the difference between three and _twelve? _

Poor Orana. Hawke tried to stand still on that stupid stool, but she was made for combat: always moving.

Hawke rolled her shoulders and shifted on the bed. Her mabari, Quippie, whimpered at the foot of the bed and gave her toes a small lick. She laughed, and the dog, taking it as a good sign, bounded onto the bed without warning.

"_Oof! _You big monster," she laughed breathlessly, "get off of me!" The mabari snuggled in next to her and poked her cheek with his wet nose. She squeezed his fur and placed a kiss between his eyes. He barked and slobbered her face. "Keep it down, Quips. Mother will hear you."

Her mabari settled in alongside her, his snout resting on her pillow. She cooed to and pet him until his eyes closed.

Tomorrow, she would read the book. Maybe it would give her some insight on that elf, hopefully. But before that, she'd visit Aveline and explain herself for not being there as a friend should have been. Maybe an old-styled Ferelden apology would suffice?

Hawke grinned sleepily, imagining the look Aveline would give her if she arrived at the barracks with three goats and a sheaf of wheat.

_Tempting._


	3. Chapter 3

Bioware owns all, except this story. Enjoy!

* * *

"There's no excuse, Hawke," Aveline stated firmly as she paced her office. "You promised to show and help me have a nice evening on the Coast with Donnic, and then not only do you _not _turn up, but you send the whore to fill in for you!"

Hawke smiled nervously and shrugged her shoulders. "I heard from Isabela that it turned out splendidly, though."

Aveline raised an eyebrow. "Did you, now?"

"Well, of course she did," Isabela huffed as she invited herself into the office. She ignored the infuriated look on Aveline's face from eavesdropping. "Let's face it, big girl," Isabela purred, moving to stand beside Hawke, "the two of you made enough racket for all of the Free Marches to hear. If she didn't hear it from me, well. There's your answer."

Aveline turned red in the face and, if Hawke wasn't standing between them, surely would have given Isabela another sore spot—one that had nothing to do with her sexuality.

"Aveline, I don't suppose an 'I'm sorry' will do?" Hawke asked easily, trying and succeeding at defusing the tension between the two women. She knew that Aveline was easily riled up when it came to personal matters and that she had no real animosity toward Isabela. The pirate wench just pushed her luck too many times.

Aveline sighed and leaned against her desk. "No, it won't." A smile slowly crept onto her lips. "But that doesn't mean you didn't do a good job sending in Isabela. Good work."

"Don't start praising me like I'm one of your guards, Aveline," Hawke laughed. "I was happy to help, even if it was a small contribution."

"Hey now, I didn't do it alone," Isabela added. She jutted one of her hips out, exposing more of a bronzed leg from beneath her sad excuse of clothing. "Kitten helped too, remember?" She winked at Hawke. "Or was your schedule too... _crowded... _to remember?"

"Shut up, whore," Aveline snapped, readying herself to smack Isabela if necessary.

Hawke stepped in again, not sure how many times she'd be able to intercede without being in the line of fire. "Speaking of Merrill, where is she? It's oddly strange not to see her with you, Isabela."

"That's what I told her, the silly girl. It's ruining my image, you know. People are starting to recognize me by seeing the chatty little elven girl with me, and she refused to join me today. Hardly anyone gave me a glance!" Isabela pouted. "Can you believe that? You know what that means, don't you?"

"That you'll have to strip naked just to get a glance from men?" Aveline supplied. She smirked. "Good, we'll finally have proof to arrest you."

"Oh, darling, your inner man would just... leap right out and tackle me to the ground if I ever stripped naked," she purred. Isabela lilted in triumph when Aveline's cheeks flushed red. "And poor Donnic, too. Right when you snagged—and shagged—him!"

"Why, you—"

"Is Merrill busy, Isabela?" Hawke glanced nervously between them. "She isn't tangled in her twine again, is she?"

"Oh, nothing like that, Hawke. Actually, she told me to invite you over to her place. Said something about practicing as a hostess or some rubbish like that." Isabela took small steps toward Hawke, still aware that Aveline hadn't taken her blazing green eyes off of her.

A muscle in Hawke's face twitched. "Practicing... hostess? Dear Maker, she isn't trying to have a friendly dinner get-together again, is she?" The last time they had all agreed to eat at Merrill's small apartment in the Alienage, hardly anything was edible. How the elf survived on burnt pieces of questionable substances, she'd never know.

Anders had no problem eating it, which only heightened Hawke's fears of just how well the mage took care of himself.

Fenris hadn't even showed up. _Didn't even bother to offer an explanation either, _Hawke thought dryly. _Typical. _

Aveline gave Hawke a worried look. "Did anyone tell her how awful it was last time?"

"What, does the Red Bull want to charge the little Kitten to pieces?" Isabela frowned.

"She was just starting out in the Alienage, Aveline," Hawke said. "You never know, she could have improved," she added in an attempt to smooth the conversation.

Aveline didn't look convinced, and Hawke was sure that her own expression was quite doubtful, too.

Isabela rolled her eyes. "Well who gives two lays about the food? The drink is what matters, I say."

"Let's hope that it isn't tea made out of poison ivy again this time," Aveline sighed.

* * *

"I can't remember the last time I've had people over, you know—has it really been that long, or was I clocked on the head again?" Merrill chirped from her small kitchen just off the main room of her humble apartment.

"We always meet at the Hanged Man, Merrill," Hawke answered, not looking up from her work. She'd brought Shartan's book with her to Merrill's, hoping that she'd have an hour or so to read. But after having her seat collapse beneath her, she decided that enough was enough and stashed the book back in her pack. She was fixing one of the many broken chairs littered around the main room for the sake of the next bottom that chose to rest upon it.

Isabela sat in the only decent chair, her elbows hunkered down on Merrill's table unceremoniously. She was scratching a design in the table with her dagger. Hawke had a hunch on what the pirate was drawing; her railing in her estate was testimony to that.

"But the Alienage is only a few minutes from the Hanged Man," Merrill countered. "It'd be a nice change instead of losing myself in the city trying to find it. Your brother used to escort me before he joined the Templars."

Hawke smiled and saw the wink Isabela shot her. Carver had been very pleasant to Merrill, despite her being a blood mage. They'd gotten along well, and if she knew any better, she'd daresay that Carver had a soft spot for the petite elf.

But now she could only guess as to what Carver was like now. Had Knight Commander Meredith polluted his mind beyond recognition? Would he hate mages—his own sister—due to the Templars relentless lectures?

Hawke knew that not all Templars had a deep hatred and distrust toward mages. Ser Thrask was proof that there were still Templars that held a great amount of respect toward the magic-borne. Even Carver's namesake was an exception.

"I don't see any harm in having a few meetings here from time to time," Hawke said. From the clatter in the kitchen, she could tell that Merrill was thrilled. "So long as we fix the chairs. You know how moody Varric is when everyone's taller than him during discussions."

Isabela snorted and smirked as she put the finishing touches on her masterpiece. "I'm willing to bet ten sovereigns that not _all _of Varric is short—"

"—Isabela—"

"What?" Merrill chose that time to leave the kitchen, holding a tray of what looked to be leaves and tiny cups of tea. "But aren't all dwarves short? His legs are even shorter than mine, how can he possibly be tall? Maybe there are other variations of dwarf—is that possible?—that I'm not aware of, and maybe they're actually tall? Like a mutation, maybe?"

Isabela leaned back in her seat and propped her legs on the table. "Oh, kitten, I'm sure that whatever he lacks in length, width will make up for—"

Hawke silenced her with a murderous glare, but it didn't keep the smug smile from growing on Isabela's face.

"But Varric isn't fat—that's what we're talking about, right?" Merrill set the tray down and placed a plate of the leaf-food and a cup of tea on the table for each of them.

"Don't fret over it, Kitten," Isabela purred. "Being _short-_minded isn't entirely a bad thing."

Hawke closed her eyes and pursed her lips, counting to five before she joined them at the table.

"Merrill," she started, "what exactly _is _this?" She poked at the leaves.

Merrill's eyes twinkled as she said, "It's a Dalish dessert, one that honors friendship and company." She paused and looked horrified for a moment. "Is—is it customary to serve dessert before an actual meal for humans? I—I'm sorry if I offended you, the Dalish have a sweet tooth and—"

Hawke shook her head and to appease the elf, took a quick bite of the leaves. She kept her face neutral when all she wanted to do was gag.

_Sweet tooth? Maker, there isn't anything _sweet _about this! _

Merrill stared at her expectantly and squirmed in her seat she was so eager. "Do... do you like it? Does Dalish food agree with you?"

Hawke gulped down the leaves and put on a forced, too-happy smile that the elf was too naïve to see through. "It's delicious!"

Merrill beamed and jolted out of her seat. She clapped her hands together. "Oh, Hawke, you have no idea what this means to me!" She was so excited and thrilled that she didn't see Isabela hiding sneers in the crook of her elbow. The pirate had a sudden coughing fit when Hawke turned an evil eye toward her.

"I'll make some more for you!" Merrill practically skipped back into the kitchen, and when she was out of sight, Hawke grabbed her cup of tea and nearly drained it in one swallow.

Her eyes bulged and she choked. "Merrill—what—what kind of tea is this?" She put the cup down and stuck her tongue out in disgust. If anything, the tea made the awful taste in her mouth worse.

"Tea? Who said anything about tea, Hawke?" Merrill lilted. "I made the conclusion that all tea tastes like hot water, and so I just boiled water. Can't really taste the difference, can you? Now, Dalish tea, _that's _something to be excited about—"

Hawke didn't want to think about what Dalish tea tasted like. She grimaced and scrunched her face up. Isabela patted her on the shoulder, still wearing that trademark smile.

"Well, how 'bout it, Isabela? Aren't you going to eat your _Dalish dessert _and _tea?" _Hawke gritted out. "You don't want to be rude to our hostess, do you?"

"Sweetie, I'm surprised you didn't find the solution to this problem yet," Isabela chuckled. She gathered her plate and cup, went over to the fireplace, and tossed the leaves in it. The 'tea' soon followed.

The fire crackled and faded a bit before burning brightly again. Hawke glared at Isabela. "You have experience with this, don't you?"

"That would be telling, pet."

* * *

"Light blue doesn't suit you," Leandra announced after staring at the dress for what seemed an eternity. "Take it off, Marian. Perhaps the violet will work better? No, that won't do. Maybe an indigo or burgundy one?"

Hawke sighed and mechanically moved back behind the divider. "You said this wouldn't be painful, Mother."

"Choosing the right dress is a serious matter, Marian. You would know this if you only took the time to learn how to be a proper lady. And by the Maker, must you clutter your room with your weapons?"

"Everything is where it should be, Mother. All is in its proper place."

"All except for you," she countered. She rummaged through her daughter's closet, frowning at the dresses. "Most of these are for public affairs during the day. I should have bought some more evening gowns for you. Here, try the indigo one."

An arm stuck out from behind the divider, blindingly searching for the dress Leandra held out. Finally snatching it, Hawke resumed her attempts at trying to take her current dress off.

"This is... some sort of... torture contraption, I swear!" she hissed. She yanked and pulled, but the bodice would not budge. "How do you even breathe in this Darkspawn-cursed thing?"

"If you didn't slouch," Leandra reprimanded, "then you'd be able to. You have such sloppy posture, Marian. It isn't normal for a person to slouch all the time."

"It isn't slouching, Mother. I'm merely readying myself for combat at any given moment. You know I need to be cautious."

Leandra made to reply, but a tearing sound from behind the divider interrupted her. She shook her head and crossed her arms. "That better not have been a dress, Marian."

Hawke clenched her eyes closed and mentally prepared herself for the scolding she was about to have. _At least the dress is off, _she thought. Slowly, she held out the ruined dress. Leandra gasped when she saw the large rip down the front of it.

"Marian!" Leandra held the dress delicately at the shoulders, as if the smallest of movements could damage it even more. Her eyes blazed as she tossed the dress aside. "Maker, child, sometimes I think you were meant to be a boy." She marched behind the divider, ignoring her daughter's protests, and looked her over. "And you wonder why you were having such problems—the corset isn't tight enough!" Without warning, Leandra pulled the laces tight.

Hawked gasped as her ribcage constricted. "M-Mother, I-I can't b-breathe!"

"Stand up straight," she ordered. Hawke's back became ramrod straight, and though it was uncomfortable, she could take tiny gasps of air.

"There." Leandra helped her daughter into the indigo dress, her movements rough and harsh. Her nails would scrape and prick against Hawke's skin, and when she would wince, her mother would grab her arm and hold her straight.

Finally, after an eternity of torment, the dress was on her.

Leandra stepped back, a look of awe in her eyes. "Oh, this is perfect for you! This shade of blue absolutely complements your hair and eyes. You have the Amell dark hair, but you have your father's amber eyes."

_Hawke eyes, _she thought dully. _Varric's told me as much. _

Tears welled up in her eyes. "If only your father was here to see this," Leandra sighed. She held her hand to her mouth to contain her sobs. "He would have been so proud of you."

Hawke smiled shyly and shrugged as best she could. "Father never really cared for looks, Mother." From her mother's silence, she thought she had offended her, and Hawke wracked her brain for an apology.

But Leandra nodded and clasped her hands tightly together. "You're right. We fell in love when I was nobility, and his love never wavered even when I was downgraded to Ferelden garments." She stared off into the fireplace. "He was such a charmer, your father. He was always willing to help, and always knew the right things to say to make me blush like a young maiden."

Hawke idly toyed with the fabric of her dress. "I suppose Thomas knows how to charm, as well."

Leandra looked at her daughter, a faint smile on her lips. "Thomas is a good man, Marian. He may not be your father, but he makes me happy."

"Will you marry him?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

Her mother took in a breath before replying. "I haven't decided yet, and he hasn't proposed. I suppose these things take time to develop. Would it bother you if we did marry? I know how close you were to your father—"

"Father is dead," Hawke bit out. "He would have wanted you to be happy—_I _want you to be happy." If her mother wasn't so absorbed in thoughts of dear Thomas, she would have seen the subtle signs of anguish on her daughter's face.

Hawke smeared on another perfected fake smile. Leandra caressed her cheek and smoothed her thumb along her cheek bone. "And soon, you will have the same happiness from a man, Marian. I have a good feeling about this." Leandra beamed and held her daughter's hand. She placed a kiss on her knuckles, then frowned as if she was looking at something repulsive. "But no man will want a woman with callouses such as these."

* * *

Varric laughed and took another swig from his ale. "She's really set on finding you a suitor, isn't she, Hawke? By the Maker, I can only see how that will turn out. Poor fool wouldn't know what he'd be getting himself into."

Hawke narrowed her eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm only saying that there is still work to be done, my friend. Any suitor that you'd have would barely see you, given that your schedule is booked."

She grunted and waved Norah over for another drink. The Hanged Man had closed an hour ago, but Corff, knowing that Hawke was a loyal regular, had let her stay. He stood behind the counter, cleaning mugs and plates.

_And no doubt listening to us. Word will probably be all over Kirkwall tomorrow of how my mother is __hunting around for my future husband. _The mental image of her mother rabidly chasing down men made the corner of her lips turn up.

Varric chuckled. "See? There's always some enjoyment in the worst of situations. Well, I can't really see your husband-to-be finding any enjoyment—"

"Are you trying to make a point, Varric?"

"Not at all, not at all. I'm just... observing."

"Hmph," she snorted. "You've probably been listening to Isabela's tales of how I am still an 'untouched virgin, eager and seeking the touch of a skilled hand to deflower me'."

"Well, Hawke, they are hard to _not _listen to. Rivaini has a knack for storytelling, what can I say? Not as skilled as me, mind you, but she does know a thing or two about detail."

Hawke rolled her eyes. "Why I spend my coin on your dinners, I'll never know."

Varric folded his hands on the table. "I'm sure it has nothing to do with me always looking out for your back. Or my chest hair. Bianca would make plans, you see."

"Speaking of plans," she prompted, "I received a letter from the Viscount. He wants to meet me first thing in the morning. Interested in tagging along for another earful of diplomatic crises?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Hawke. I could use a few more embellishments and inspiration for my next few chapters. For companionable reasons, you understand."

"And you understand that I put our drinks on your tab."

Varric's mouth twitched. "You drain a man more than Rivaini does during a threesome, Hawke."


	4. Chapter 4

Bioware owns all, except this story and any OCs I introduce in it. Enjoy!

* * *

"If this was a matter meant for the guards, Hawke, then I'm sure the Viscount would have approached me directly." Aveline followed her friend up the staircases leading to the Viscount's private office.

"The Qunari have put many citizens of Kirkwall on end," Hawke explained while sharing a grin with Varric. "You said yourself that even your men are beginning to feel the stress of having the Qunari occupy half of the docks."

"True," she agreed. "But the guards haven't been given permission to force the Qunari out. We aren't even allowed to let them use one of Kirkwall's ships to transport them back to Par Vollen."

Varric smirked and nudged Hawke. "But wouldn't you want to know what's going on in the city, Aveline? I'm sure you would have bent Hawke's ear for details if she didn't ask you to come with us."

The Captain of the Guard tried to hide her smile with a frown, but Hawke could hear the mirth in her voice. "I never knew it was like you to weasel your way hither and thither, Varric."

He chuckled and shrugged. "You learn a few things while attending Merchant Guild meetings, what can I say?"

Merrill smiled and looked between her two friends. "I thought you never attended those meetings, Varric?"

"Daisy," he sighed dramatically, "when you're as skilled as I am, you learn to be there without actually _being _there."

Merrill frowned and tilted her head to the side. "I'm sorry, I don't quite understand—it wasn't dirty, was it?"

Varric patted her on the shoulder. "Nothing you need to worry your pretty head over, Daisy."

Hawke moved toward the Viscount's office doors when she was stopped abruptly by a very flustered Seneschal Bran. Hawke nodded in greeting.

"Serah Hawke," he stated in his typical aristocratic tone. His eyes darted between her and her companions, sizing them up. "You've made quite the name for yourself over the past four years. Kirkwall's citizenry seem to have nothing better to speak of. Your adventures are well known."

"Thank you for the praise, Seneschal." She kept her expression neutral as he scrutinized her face. "The Hawke name will continue to be a popular topic, I assure you."

His brow furrowed and he took a step forward. He lowered his voice as he spoke, "Then let me remind you that the moment you choose to fall from grace, word will reach the Viscount in a matter of hours. Should you prove to be a nuisance to Kirkwall and her people, we will not hesitate to eradicate you."

She squared her shoulders and held her ground. "I have no plans to turn on Kirkwall, Bran."

"That is _Seneschal _Bran to you," he grunted. He stepped aside and gestured toward the doors. "The Viscount waits for your company. I would suggest not making him wait any further." When Hawke and her company walked past him, he cleared his throat and shot her an expectant look. "I believe he only requested Serah Hawke."

Aveline crossed her arms, ready to retort, but Hawke put a hand on her arm. She smiled at the Seneschal, Aveline's glare visible in her peripheral vision, and sweetly said, "Thank you, _Seneschal _Bran. My friends will just wait right here, won't they?" She turned back toward her small group, slipping Varric a sly wink. He chuckled and rolled his shoulders.

"We'll be right here, Hawke," he promised. The Seneschal did not see the mischievous look pass on his face.

* * *

"It's neverending," Viscount Dumar sighed. He sat in his chair, his hands folded under his chin. At first glance, it would only seem that he was in deep thought. But Hawke knew the look of desperation on his face—knew that his hands were folded in prayer. Her own mother sported the look when her father and Bethany died.

"The Qunari will not leave?"

The Viscount looked up at her with tired eyes. "They still claim that they are waiting for their ships back to Par Vollen. Who am I to believe?" He stared at his desk, the muscles in his face taut, making himself look as old as his years. "Do I trust that the Arishok is speaking the truth, or do I take matters into my own hands and investigate further?" A pause stretched between them, and Hawke wondered if he expected an answer.

A sad sound escaped his throat, and he rubbed his forehead. "If I investigate, it will only anger the Qunari and perhaps rally them for battle."

"It seems as if you are only prolonging peace between Kirkwall and the Qunari, not guaranteeing it," Hawke said.

"It seems that is the only safe option I have, Serah Hawke."

"Maybe choosing the safe way isn't the answer." He waited for an explanation. "The Qunari have been in Kirkwall for years. As far as I know, they grow disgusted by Kirkwall's people. With them still here, it is only a matter of time before that disgust reaches its limit."

The Viscount was quiet for some time. Hawke wasn't sure if he had even heard her, but when he stood up from his seat, she knew he had. "Perhaps you are right," he admitted. "But I would rather avoid awakening a sleeping giant."

She inclined her head. "It was not my intention to question your authority, Viscount Dumar."

"Nor did I ever accuse you of it." A small smile cracked the old man's stony features. "Sometimes I wish _you _were seneschal, serah."

Hawke bit her lip to keep laughter at bay. "You flatter me."

He slowly paced the length of the room. "You have listened to my every complaint, Serah Hawke, without showing annoyance or irritation. Instead, you offer yourself as a way to help." He stopped and turned toward her. "If I may ask: why?"

"Kirkwall is my home," she responded easily. "I protect what is most dear to me."

He raised an eyebrow. "Your home? I'm aware that the Amells once had great standing in Kirkwall, but I do not recall the name 'Hawke' in our history books."

Hawke met his gaze with her own. "My family, be they Hawke or Amell, have roots in Kirkwall. I aim to make sure that those roots stay here."

"So it is not for your own bidding, then? You choose to help me with the Qunari based on family and not on yourself?" He stared at one of his bookshelves and whispered, "Is it possible for someone to sacrifice so much for others?"

Hawke opened her mouth, but found that she could not form words. Her jaw hung open, and she glued her eyes to the floor so that the Viscount could not see her flabbergasted expression. She closed her mouth and swallowed. "I—I..."

"Forgive me," he mercifully interrupted. "I did not summon you here to question your motives, though I hold more respect for you now, if that is even possible." He sat back down and waited until she collected herself. He leaned forward in his seat. "The Arishok has requested an audience with you by name. It appears that there are a select few that he is not disgusted with."

Hawke, now standing straight and keeping her head level, blinked in surprise. "You are positive he wants to see me?"

The Viscount nodded. "It is surprising, isn't it?"

"And by 'request', I suppose he is demanding it?"

The Viscount cleared his throat. "You need not listen to his demands, Serah Hawke. You could always walk away from this."

"And that will only justify the Qunari's disposition toward Kirkwall. No, I will meet with him."

He smiled again. "Should it concern Kirkwall, please let me know as soon as possible."

She bowed. "On the honor of my family name, Viscount Dumar.

* * *

"And then, not being phased by the blood-red paint smeared on the bandit leader's gruesome face, Hawke stood her ground and demanded that he fight alongside his comrades like a real man. The bandit leader, realizing that a _woman—_a female of the opposite sex—had just demanded something from him—"

"—Varric—"

"—jumped down from his vantage point on the cliffs, brandished his sword, and charged right at Hawke—"

"—Varric—"

"—and Hawke, having seen Death's face more times than she'd care to count, met his assault without the slightest resistance—"

Hawke crossed her arms and gave him an incredulous look. "And slayed the bandit leader with her eyes closed and hands tied behind her back, correct?"

Varric huffed, irritated that someone from his audience interrupted him, and whirled around to face the gutsy person. "Spoilers aren't very becoming of a—Hawke! I... wasn't expecting you to be done with your meeting so soon! What brings you here?"

Hawke glanced between the audience gathered at the foyer of the Keep and her friend. "I see you've been keeping yourself occupied."

"Well, after Daisy and I turned all the books upside down, we decided to take it to the next level."

Hawke smirked. "You're lucky Isabela didn't come with us—"

"And I can say the same for you," he laughed. "But I'm willing to bet ten sovereigns that I was the best entertainment these people have seen in quite some time." He gestured toward his audience. "I'm sure Seneschal Bran enjoyed it, too."

Hawke looked through the small crowd to see the Seneschal, ruffled feathers and everything, usher and squawk at the audience, trying to maintain some semblance of order. He ordered the guards to assist him, but they shifted awkwardly on their feet. With their Captain only a few feet away, seemingly content to watch Seneschal Bran actually work, they did not know whether to remain at ease or to actually listen to the man.

"And Merrill?" Hawke asked.

"De-alphabetizing the bookshelves," Varric shrugged. "Well, you took longer than we expected," he said in defense of the look she gave him. He followed after her when she walked toward the Keep's exit. "So, what's the Viscount want from you? Your mother hasn't been pestering him again about the Amells, has she?"

"If she was, I think he'd make the Seneschal take care of that," Hawke said.

"Speaking of the Seneschal," Aveline started as she dragged Merrill through the crowd of people, "I've heard that you're seeing his son, Raydin. Is that true, Hawke?"

Hawke visibly cringed and waited until they were finally out of the Keep before answering her. "I haven't even met him yet, and already people say I'm seeing him?"

Aveline smiled and released her vice-like grip on Merrill. The elven girl rubbed her arm, certain that there would be bruises. _Isabela was right when she dubbed her 'Captain Man Hands.'_

"I don't mean to pry, but be careful around Raydin. He isn't as disdainful as his father, but the apple never falls too far from the tree. He's been known to find trouble and then miraculously find a way out."

"Sounds a bit like Hawke," Varric mused.

"No," Aveline deadpanned. "Hawke doesn't hide behind her family name to snivel her way out of sticky situations."

"Was that supposed to be dirty, Aveline?" Merrill asked with her usual innocent face.

"Merrill, keep walking," the guard captain sighed.

"So, if not your mother, then I have one more hunch as to what the Viscount could possibly want." Varric patted Bianca. "I don't suppose it has anything to do with the Ox Men, does it?"

"You can ask the Arishok that when we get there."

* * *

"Javaris," Varric spat as they left the Qunari Compound. "Now there's a dwarf who should have stayed underground."

Hawke shook her head as she led the group out of the Docks. "He isn't the most tactful of people, Varric. I doubt he realizes what he's getting himself into."

"That hardly matters when lives are at stake," Aveline said. "Do we have any leads on him?"

"The Coterie," Varric supplied. "He's too shady to try the Merchant's Guild."

"I thought they had a hand in that as well?" Aveline frowned.

"To some extent. Wherever money is, you can count on The Coterie being involved." Varric took Aveline's silence as a good sign. "Besides, I'm looking forward to _de_scending stairs instead of _a_scending them."

* * *

"And why should I tell you where Javaris' whereabouts are, hm?"

A frown tugged at Hawke's mouth. "You said yourself: he's been skipping on payments. Now why would the Coterie be interested in protecting a disloyal customer?"

Varric smirked and shook his head. "Seems to me the Coterie's been a bit degraded if they're willing to accept missed payments. I thought this organization was more... what's the word?"

"Criminal. Thieving. Cutthroat. An arrow-in-your-spine," Aveline growled, her eyes set in a glower on the Coterie member.

"Take your pick." Varric smiled and tilted his head to the side. "Now wouldn't that be unfortunate if word of this spread over Kirkwall?"

The Coterie Barker took a step back and narrowed her eyes at the group. "Isn't that an idea?"

"Of course, we could forget we ever had this conversation if you told us where Javaris Tintop fled to." Hawke smiled when the Barker sighed and nodded.

"I suppose that would save both our hides, yeah? He used Darktown's tunnels to reach a place called 'Smuggler's Cut'. Do me a favor if you see 'im? Tell 'im to find someone else to cheat."

* * *

"You do realize that this _is _criminal?" Aveline asked as they descended into the tunnels. The tunnels branched out into caves, and she had to keep one hand on Merrill's arm so that the clumsy elf wouldn't trip over a rock or jutting root.

"But it's for the Viscount and Kirkwall," Hawke reasoned. "We don't know what he's going to do with that poison gas—will he use it as a way to blackmail the Qunari for previously insulting him, or will he actually _use _it?"

"I don't think Javaris is nervy enough to use the poison," Varric commented.

"Maybe," Hawke nodded, "but what's stopping him from making some coin by selling it to someone who has a bone to pick with Kirkwall?"

"I see your point," Aveline said. "It just doesn't feel like protocol for the Captain of the Guard to make an arrest without a small contingent of guards behind her."

"That didn't stop you from asking me to help foil Jeven's plot against the Guard," Hawke chuckled.

"That is true," Aveline agreed with a smile.

"I don't mean to interrupt," Merrill chirped, "but does anyone else feel as if it is _too _quiet?" They stopped as a unit and unsheathed their weapons. Hawke held her staff tightly and drummed her fingers against it, her eyes darting everywhere at once in the cave.

"I smell an ambush," Varric quietly mused. Bianca was ready when the first thug leapt down from the ledges surrounding them; her bolt landed perfectly in his forehead.

"Carta!" Hawke yelled as she and Merrill stepped back to cast spells at a safe distance. But they were not allowed that luxury, as more of the Carta thugs swarmed them. Though their armor wasn't exactly the best, they were hardy and determined dwarves fit for battle in great numbers.

Merrill kept the worst of the Carta at bay by summoning rocks that locked their feet in place, and Aveline finished them off either with her shield or sword. Whenever one of the thugs would venture too close to the mages, Hawke would dig her staff in the ground and conjure a small circle of fire around Merrill and herself.

"Behind you!"

Aveline turned just in time to block an incoming blow. She pushed back with her shield, staggering the thug, then slammed it into his skull. Varric whistled in appreciation when he heard and saw the skull cave in. A bolt whistled past Aveline, planting itself in a Carta thug who tried to flank her. The shot didn't kill him, but a swipe from Hawke's staff sent a fountain of blood spurting from his neck.

Merrill danced toward Hawke as four thugs charged toward them. Merrill shouted and thrust her staff out, and the vines littering the cave floor twitched and reacted to her call. Her magic warped them to her liking, and they shot out and tangled the thugs in their snare. The Carta members fell to the ground, cursing and struggling to hack away at their binds. But they never could regain their feet, as Hawke scorched them all to charred corpses.

"I suppose 'stop, drop, and roll' doesn't apply here?" Varric asked as he finished off the last thug.

Hawke panted and wiped the sweat off her brow. While controlling the element of fire was a hugely beneficial and impressive feat, the fiery magic swirling in the caster's veins caused the user to sweat profusely. There was no spell that could prevent this little setback, and the only solution she knew and was not fond of was Tranquility.

Her father had once taught her that each school of magic and their levels of study had different effects on the body. Casters who specialized in earth-based spells often had a musky, wet leaf smell to them. Merrill smelled like autumn and dew-soaked grass, though it was very subtle. With Anders having experience with lightning spells, it wasn't uncommon for someone to experience a small spark when brushing past him. The feathers on his coat attracted enough static as it were.

_Especially _the feathers, those blasted things.

Her staff was slick with sweat from her palms and her hair was plastered to her forehead. She grunted and watched as Varric looted the bodies.

"Do you think you could have killed them _without _charring their possessions?" he grumbled. She shrugged and offered him a small smile.

"Why would the Carta be here?" Aveline pondered aloud as she nudged a body with her boot. "Do you think they're to gain something by helping Javaris?"

"Or are they trying to stop Javaris, as well?" Hawke shook her head and joined Aveline. "Or maybe they're not even related. The Carta are common enough in Darktown; it's no surprise that they'd be frequenting the caves, too."

"I don't like this," Aveline said. She crossed her arms. "Whatever their reasons are, the sooner we confront Javaris, the better. I'll sleep easier knowing he's behind bars."

They pressed on, keeping their eyes peeled for any more of the Carta. Varric stopped the group periodically to search through rotten barrels and crates. Most of what he found was of little import until he exclaimed in delight and showed Hawke his discovery.

"Rivaini would appreciate this, I bet," he chuckled. Hawke packed the tiny ship in a bottle away and led them further on. They entered a clearing in the cave packed with an even greater number of Carta. Aveline took the front with Varric at her flank, and Merrill and Hawke stood their ground behind them.

Merrill continued to twist the vines around the Carta's ankles, causing them to stumble and fall right on Aveline's sword. The Guard Captain roared and swept her blade clear through one of the Carta's necks, but his comrades quickly took his place.

Hawke cursed as more came pouring out from hidden passages in the cave. She gripped her staff tightly in one hand and raised the other to the ceiling, murmuring under her breath. Controlled rocks of fire rained down on the next swarm of Carta, halting them from swarming Aveline. Varric concentrated Bianca on them while Merrill watched Aveline's flank.

"There's more of them!" Aveline barked out before rushing them, her shield drawn in front of her. She smashed through the Carta leading the next wave, and he fell backward into his comrade. While she was occupied with finishing him off, one of the Carta—an Assassin, Hawke guessed—snaked around Aveline and stole a swipe across her shoulder blades.

"Aveline!" Merrill shrieked. She hurried to move her position closer to her friend's.

Her armor deflected most of the attack, but the impact of the blow caused her to lurch forward. More of the Carta saw the opportunity at hand, but before they could land another hit on her, Merrill launched a rock projectile toward them. They scattered and scrambled for cover as the rock burst and broke into small, sharpened missiles. They dove to the ground and covered their heads as the pieces of rock showered them. Varric and Aveline dispatched of them quickly before they could recover, and Hawke used her fire spells to keep the Carta behind them at bay.

Soon enough, the battle was over, all four of them panting and downing the high of battle. Merrill had fallen on her bottom from the relief of the battle being over.

"Did he break skin or bone?" Hawke asked once she collected herself. Aveline rolled her shoulders and winced.

"I don't believe so," she answered. "But it will leave a nasty bruise. Nothing I can't handle."

Hawke nodded and helped Merrill to her feet.

"Now that's a spell I hardly ever use," she nervously chirped. "I almost resisted the pull of magic." She held onto Hawke's shoulder for support and looked down at her feet. She wiggled her toes. "I wish I wore shoes," the elf sighed. "This stone is cold and hard on my feet."

"Don't worry, Daisy," Varric smiled. "I'm willing to bet we're almost out of this cave." After checking the bodies for any valuables, they finally emerged from the cave to be greeted with an onslaught of mercenaries, but above all, Javaris.


	5. Chapter 5

Bioware owns all, except this fanfiction and any OCs I may add to it. Question: Are these chapters too long, too short? Thanks for any feedback! Enjoy!

* * *

Javaris shook and trembled with fear as Hawke and her companions downed the last of the mercenaries. He swallowed hard and took a nervous step back when they moved toward him.

"If you keep that act up, you could join the circus," Hawke said as she stood before him. "You're not dead, Javaris, and we're not as despicable as these mercenaries to gut you before receiving answers."

Javaris cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together as an attempt to calm his jittery nerves. "That doesn't give me much confidence—by the Paragons, it's _you!" _

Merrill blinked and looked at Hawke. "It's us," she said confoundedly.

"It's her," Varric chuckled.

"With company," Aveline said while staring Javaris down.

"Surprised to see me again, Javaris?" Hawke asked smugly.

He swore and rubbed his eyes, as if he couldn't believe he was seeing her. "My sodding luck, that's what it is. Let me guess: she hired you to pickle my head, didn't she? Well go 'head, skewer me like a pig."

"A fine end to criminality," Aveline mused darkly.

Hawke frowned at Javaris. "We're here on behalf of the Qunari. What you have in your possession isn't explosives: it's poison, Javaris. Very _potent _poison."

The dwarf blinked and sagged his shoulders. "The _Qunari? _You're here for the Qunari?" He clenched his fist and swore beneath his breath. "That bitch-born elf used me as bait for nothing!" He sighed and shook his head. "Look, you want the straight story? I stuck with my usual business to make coin—nothing life-threatening," he added when Aveline gave him a look that could kill, "when this elf approaches me with a proposition. She has the Qunari powder, she says, and it's either I help her or she kills me. I saw her logic and profit in the situation, so I hired her protection and slipped into cover."

"Complications," Aveline sighed, "a Guard Captain's worst nightmare."

"And now the lot of you are here, sod it. Makes my day that much better," he said gruffly.

"And instead of explaining this to the Qunari, you decide to flee?" Hawke asked.

He laughed bitterly and held his hands up. "Maybe it's a human thing not to understand simple situations. Let me make it simpler: an elf in the possession of _explosives _wants me dead. Two: the Qunari Ox-Men might think that _I'm _the thief since there's no evidence proving otherwise, and may also want me dead. Does that sound like butterflies and rainbows to you? Didn't think so."

When Hawke and Aveline still had him pinned under their merciless stares, and Aveline's freckles threatening to burn her face, Javaris exhaled and crossed his arms. "Fine, fine, so that isn't all there is to it. I had a man follow her if you're interested in justice."

"It wouldn't make this trip _completely _useless," Aveline said bitterly.

"She's in Lowtown if you want to go after her. Now are you going to let me leave with my dead guards—thanks a lot, human—or you going to put my head on a pike and send it to the Qunari?"

Hawke looked over at Aveline. "I think we can afford to spare his life, don't you?"

"As much as I loathe this, he obliviously got himself into this situation, not willingly." Aveline sighed and nodded to Hawke.

"We'll let you go, Javaris," Hawke said. "But let me remind you that this is the _second _time you're off the hook. You know what they say about the third time."

"Three strikes, you're _out,_" Varric smirked.

Javaris snorted and turned his back on them. "Go puff a short shaft, you meddling Ferelden dog-lord bitch-keeper."

* * *

Isabela waved Corff over for another round to drown herself in. She mutely accepted the tankard of ale with a nod of her head before chugging it back.

"Your lips are like the feathers of a hummingbird, going flutter, flutter, flutter," her latest admirer crooned next to her.

She grunted into her tankard.

"Your lashes are like the gulls of sea, batting away against the mist of a wave."

Grunt.

He sighed dreamily and slid closer to her. "Your brow is like polished bronze, smooth and gleaming with—"

Isabela slammed her tankard down and huffed. No matter how many drinks she ordered, she could still hear this idiot blabbering away in her ear. It was a miracle she didn't show him out of the Hanged Man with her daggers yet.

A small white blur caught her eye, and she turned her attention over to the lone figure perched in a chair by the Hanged Man's darkest corner with their broadsword leaning against the wall.

_Now, isn't that a sight, _she thought. _And what a pleasant one at that. _

_"—flutter, flutter, flutter—"_

"Oh, stuff it already and go _flutter _away," she growled at him. He squeaked before hurrying off to shelter at another table. She sighed in relief and moved across the Hanged Man, making sure that all of the patrons' eyes were on her.

And how could they _not _be on her, especially with those hips swaying to and fro like a ship against even tides?

A wry smile tugged at her mouth as she lowered herself in the seat across from him. "Call me a nug, but I daresay I'm looking at something extraordinary," she lowly said.

"Land ho," Fenris replied quietly. He stared at his untouched tankard of ale, his lip and nose turned up in disgust. "It surprises me that this place stays in business."

"Men don't only come here for the ale, darling." She leaned back in her seat, making sure he had a perfect view of her ample assets. "If you get my drift, of course."

He inclined his head. "I can only imagine."

She laughed and pulled his tankard closer to her. "So, what brings Kirkwall's notorious lanky elf to the Hanged Man? I doubt you came here to sight-see."

"With the view, it's hard not to," he mused. Isabela raised a pleased eyebrow. "And notorious? Here I was trying to stay hidden."

"I know a few places—"

"I... was actually looking for the dwarf," he interrupted before she could finish her thought. When she didn't look convinced, he smoothly added, "He and I have some matters to discuss, mainly having to do with my former Master's whereabouts."

Isabela quietly studied him for a moment before shrugging her shoulders. "Well, he obviously isn't here—there'd be an entire crowd gathered 'round him for the latest tale of how Hawke slayed the bandit leader while blindfolded." She took a gulp from his tankard.

"It does seem a bit laid back tonight," he noted. He caught her looking at him. "Not that I come here often, mind you. Though the sounds of desperation and the smell of stale vomit has its charms, I'm afraid they're too much for me." He held a gauntleted hand up.

"I live here, you know."

A smirk played on his mouth. "Then I stand corrected."

Isabela shrugged and propped her legs on the table. "He left with Hawke, Man Hands, and Kitten for the Viscount's Keep in the morning. Maker knows where they are now. I'd have gone with them, but I drank too much last night. Couldn't even open my eyes today without having a headache," she chuckled.

He silently absorbed this information. "It isn't surprising that she'd feel the need to involve herself in politics. It's a trait ingrained in every mage," he quietly snarled.

Isabela helped herself to another gulp.

"Mages of her caliber—or any caliber—always need to be watched. There's no telling when their hand will suddenly turn in the game of politics. Such an act would cause civil unrest."

Isabela gently put her tankard down and eyed him. "Varric, you said? Oh, do I look like one of those whores at the Rose? Though, it _is _hard to imagine you sniffing around her estate, hoping to at least catch a whiff of her." She smiled when he tensed and glared at her in his seat. "Is that what it's come down to, then? Following your dear mage sweetheart around, adhering to her every wish?"

His lyrium brands faintly shone, but in the dim light of the Hanged Man, more than a few patrons turned their eyes over to the glowing elf.

"Careful what you say next, wench," he growled. "I am not one to fall prey to the lure of magic as you suggest."

"Some women don't need to be apostates to lure in men," Isabela purred. "But she is hard to follow, isn't she? Always running here and there—makes you wonder what her motivation is."

"She is a mage," he snarled, as if it explained everything. "Her only motivations are power and greed. If she sees an opportunity to gain more of this city's trust, she'll take it—they _all _take it. Soon she'll have the whole of Kirkwall eating out of her palm."

"Oh, spare me the melodrama," Isabela huffed. "The way I see it, the Viscount has Hawke dangling on strings and making her do his dirty work. I'm not one for politics, but it is a bit... _fishy." _

His nose wrinkled from the mention of fish. "She is just as foul as that disgusting animal."

"Don't tell me you're still upset about what happened in the Holding Caves? Heard about that from Varric," Isabela said when Fenris gave her a suspicious look. "Hawke isn't Adriana, or whatever her name was. Hawke is... Hawke, to put it simply." Isabela shrugged again. "And look, it's getting a wee bit nerve-wracking for all of us tiptoeing around you two. Half the time I expect to see Hawke keeled over with your hand through her chest."

_I'd rather see her keeled over with your hand _on _her chest, _Isabela thought smugly. _Maybe I'd join in the fun, then._

"I would be doing the world a favor," he muttered darkly. Isabela huffed and rolled her eyes. Isabela looked over her shoulder when she heard Corff yell—probably at a customer who didn't pay his tab. She chuckled when Corff's face turned red, and finding the situation mundane, turned back to Fenris.

"'Ey, we don't need drunks from outside coming here for refuge! I've got plenty of 'em in here already!" Corff threw down the rag he was cleaning his counter with when more people started stumbling in the Hanged Man's front door. They were bent over, tripping over their own feet as they dragged themselves closer to Corff.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance and hauled one of them up by the collar of their tunic. "I said we aren't taking drunks—by the Maker!" He tried to throw the person off of him, but they clawed and clutched at his apron, decorating it with speckles of blood they coughed up.

"S-someone, help!" An older man, seeming to be in better condition than the other Lowtown occupants pouring in, staggered into the Hanged Man, letting the sickly citizens cling to him for support as he ushered them in.

The woman clinging to Corff fell to the floor, spasms wracking her body as she spat up more blood.

"P-please," the older man begged as he sunk to his knees. "The poison... Serah Hawke—"

"Well, it's a good thing I already had my fill of ale," Isabela sighed. "I have the feeling I'm about to stumble in something nasty, and not just drunken patrons' barf."

At the mention of the mage, Fenris stood up from his seat, almost toppling it and the table over. He had his broadsword strapped to his back in a matter of seconds.

"Where?"

The man looked up at Fenris. "S-side alley... by the Alienage." He grabbed Fenris' ankle when he tried to move past him. "The air, it's poison! She—_they _can't breathe..."

Fenris was halfway out the door when Isabela strutted over to him. "Oh, I was _right," _she purred. "Running after our darling mage."

"No," he said bluntly. "The only thing that I will allow to end her would be my fist."

* * *

"Hawke, the latch!" Varric shouted as Bianca let loose another arrow into a mercenary.

"The smog's too thick!" Aveline shouted somewhere to his right. "If we don't close those barrels, this will spread to more districts!"

The green haze was abundant in the air. It burned their eyes and scratched at their throats. Varric wasn't as affected as much as Hawke and Aveline were, as he was closer to the ground, and Merrill was casting spells from a distance. She'd inhaled some of the Qunari poison before retreating to a safer distance, and the poison made her knees tremble wildly.

Hawke, on the other hand, was forced into the thick of combat, unable to join Merrill. The mercenaries had cornered her and Aveline together. Luckily for Varric, the smog was too dense for the mercenaries to pinpoint his location. But they also had the advantage, as Varric could only see their knees through the poison.

Hawke scorched the mercenary guarding one of the steel latches. He crumpled to the ground, and she swiftly knelt beside him to recover the latch. With one arm held to her nose to slow the poison's affects, she had to drop her staff to snatch the latch—not something she enjoyed in the least bit.

"Cover me!" she yelled over her shoulder. Varric quickly moved his position, cursing when a mercenary tripped over him.

Hawke rushed through the poison, her eyes watering and her throat threatening to close on her. Once she found the barrel, thanks to Merrill navigating for her from her vantage point, the poison almost toppled her.

From its source, it was almost tangible and far more potent than what she'd already breathed in. Hawke braced herself as she tore her arm from her face and secured the latch over the barrel. She heard a body crumple to the ground behind her and guessed that Varric had just saved her hide.

With that barrel closed, Hawke turned to help Aveline slay the mercenaries guarding the other latches. Before she could reach her staff, a white-hot pain shot through her side. She gasped, sucking in more poison, and fell to the ground when the mercenary took another swipe, this time at her calf. The blade sliced through her robes and through her skin.

She searched blindly for her staff, praying to all known and unknown gods that it was within reach. But the poison had taken its toll on her body. She blinked rapidly to clear her blurred vision, but it was futile. She reached out anyway, hoping that her fingers would brush against her staff, but found that she couldn't move her arms. She stared dumbly at them, almost as if they were disconnected from the rest of her body. She willed herself to move—to fight back against the mercenary—but her body refused.

The poison had won.

* * *

"Oh, they'll pay for this," Isabela spat just as she and Fenris made the final turn into the side alley. Before leaving the Hanged Man, Corff had let them use his washcloths to tie around their mouths and nose to keep the poison at bay. He also said never to return the rags.

The sight awaiting them was nothing less than horrifying. A green gas had filled the streets of the alley, covering the bodies of its victims. "I could have drowned myself in the throes of sex, but instead, I have this to deal with. Hawke, you owe me," she muttered to herself.

Fenris charged into the battle, broadsword outstretched and held high. He saw Aveline struggling to remain standing and defend herself, but there was no sign of Hawke.

_Venhedis!_

He arrived just in time as Aveline sank to her knees, her shield clattering to the ground beside her, and leaned on her sword. Sweat matted her hair to her brow and neck, and her breaths were coming out in short, staccato-like pants.

Fenris manipulated his wide swings to his advantage, striking the mercenaries at most three at a time, while Isabela made sure that none of them saw an opportunity in his wide openings. The poison actually benefited her, as the mercenaries couldn't see her slink around them to stab them in the back.

Fenris whipped his head around when a fist of rock shot up from the ground. Safe from the poison was Merrill still holding her ground and casting spells. He could feel how loose her magic was; her spells were not nearly as controlled or strong as they normally were. A dangerous situation, to say the least.

Isabela cursed when she felt something bump into her leg and almost trip her.

"Rivaini? Is that you?"

She stared down at the smog, squinting until she could make out the faint silhouette of a dwarf. "Andraste's arse, who else would it be?"

"And Broody! I'm actually happy to see you—well, maybe because that cloth hides your usual scowl, but you understand. This is a story in the making," Varric laughed. He pointed Bianca at a mercenary a little too close to Isabela for comfort. Under other circumstances, he was sure she would have welcomed their proximity and even invited them closer.

Isabela caught a latch Fenris threw her way. She frowned when she saw the blood dripping off of it.

"Don't just stand there, Rivaini!" Varric half chuckled, half grumbled.

"Only if he does that... _glistening _thing," she whispered lowly, giving Fenris an expectant look.

His lyrium brands glowed blue as he forced his hand through a mercenary's neck. "Does that satisfy you?"

"Hardly," she laughed. She darted through the gas and closed a barrel. They kept this routine up: Fenris taking the main brunt of mercenary-onslaught, Isabela closing the barrels, and Varric scurrying between them to distract the mercenaries with Bianca.

Isabela finally sealed the last barrel. The three of them watched as the poison dissipated in a matter of minutes. Merrill came stumbling to them on wobbly knees and used Varric for support.

"Is.. is it over?" she asked nervously. "I thought my magic was about to give out."

"It's over, Kitten," Isabela said smoothly. She sauntered over to Aveline and _tsk_ed in feigned annoyance. "You're lucky your men aren't here to see the Guard Captain on her knees."

Aveline mustered up the best glare she could and tried to climb to her feet.

"I'm sure Donnic would have appreciated it. He's a big boy with even bigger needs, isn't he?" Isabela mused to herself.

"_Whore," _Aveline managed to cough out before slumping forward. Isabela caught her and almost fell backward from the weight of her armor.

"And now I'm stuck lugging you around," she grunted. "Man Weight. I could use some help over here—"

"She's.. she's going to be alright, yes?" Merrill chirped anxiously as she looked over Fenris' shoulder. Hawke laid on the ground, blood staining her robes and trickling out of the corner of her mouth. Fenris turned her over, his heart nearly skipping a beat when he felt her breath—weak as it was—against his palm.

"The mage lives," he said dully, "and is still awake. Pity."

Hawke made a weak gurgle as a response. She was pulled to her feet as Fenris stood. He cringed and felt the immediate urge to wipe his hands free of mage-filth as he propped her against his side, making sure she didn't touch an inch of his skin.

"Er, Elf? I don't think this is the best time to prod at Hawke. She's not looking so healthy right now," Varric said cautiously.

Fenris looked down at her. He was right: she was unusually pale, her puckered brow slick with sweat and grime, and her breathing was close to nonexistent.

"Do you think Anders is still awake?" Merrill asked hopefully.

Fenris' face darkened at his name. "Let the abomination take care of his magic-born ilk. It's no skin off my nose."

Rushed footsteps stopped the group from leaving the alley. Fenris took an immediate defensive stance when he saw a group of mercenaries running right toward them.

"I think we just found the culprits," Varric mused.

"Rather they found us," Fenris deadpanned.

The band of mercenaries stopped a handful of feet in front of them. The leader pushed her way to the front.

"There's our elf," Varric muttered.

The leader frowned at the group, her eyes roving over Fenris, then down at Hawke wrapped in his arm.

"Is that... Serah Hawke?" the mercenary breathed out.

"In one of her not-so-finest moments, yes," Varric said.

"She should have seen this coming," the elf spat. She narrowed her eyes at Hawke's still form. "She is no friend to us. I'm glad she's like this; she deserves no better."

Fenris frowned.

The mercenary leader sighed and glanced around the side alley, taking in the bodies littering the streets. "These people didn't have to die—_shouldn't _have had to die." Her gaze hardened as she once again eyed Hawke. "She'd make a much better statement. Imagine it: the Great Serah Hawke, _dead. _Her blood painting the streets."

"The streets would be awfully sticky, then," Merrill said in Hawke's defense.

"And what statement would that be?" Fenris asked. He tightened his hold on Hawke and Isabela adjusted Aveline's heavy form on her back.

"You defend her?" the mercenary leader snarled. She spat at Fenris. "The Qunari take my people—_our _people, our elven brothers and sisters! They forget their culture and then run and grovel at the Qunari's sacred Qun for purpose! Don't you see? We are losing our people _twice _over because of those damned Qunari!" A wicked smile turned up the corners of the mercenary leader's mouth. "You'd be surprised by how many humans are willing to hurt the Qunari just as much as we are. They offered to help, I took it. But it was never supposed to be this way—not with these casualties."

"And you figure that by killing Hawke, more will rise against the Qunari," Varric finished for her.

"Her body would add nicely to the growing number of corpses, wouldn't it?" the leader sneered. "I'll even add her elven manservant to the pile for betraying us."

Fenris held his sword in front of Hawke, his lyrium lines activating as the mercenaries drew their weapons. "Your first mistake was using the _saar-qamek_," he growled. "The second was associating me with your kind. And that will also be your last."

* * *

**_saar-qamek _is the Qunari term for the poison gas, just to remind anyone who forgot!


	6. Chapter 6

Dragon Age and its characters belong to Bioware. Any OC though, belongs to me :) After this chapter, there will definitely be more Fenris. Just have to finish staging the suitors. Enjoy!

* * *

"First Bethany, then Carver, and now this," Leandra sobbed as she hovered over Hawke's resting form. "Is the Maker punishing me for running away with Malcolm? Is this His form of justice?"

"That is absurd, Mistress Hawke," Aveline said from the doorway of Hawke's chambers. "Your daughter acted on the will of the Viscount and provided her service to Kirkwall's security."

Leandra brushed her daughter's hair out of her face. "And why is it that my family, the Amells—nobility!—should actively participate in combat for the betterment of Kirkwall? I believe we have guards for that purpose."

Aveline stiffened and took in a deep breath to settle her nerves. "I assure you that this matter was far too delicate for the city guard to handle by themselves."

"'Too delicate'," Leandra whispered. "Bethany was 'too delicate' and had her body destroyed by that horrible ogre. And is my Marian not 'too delicate' to rampage about, casting spells this way and that? She is of high-born class and is expected to behave like it. I can't have her mucking about with Kirkwall's inferior. What would society think of us then?"

"What would society think of Hawke if she stayed cooped up in this estate, not reaching out to Kirkwall's defenseless and downtrodden?" Aveline dared to ask.

Leandra's eyes hardened and she narrowed them at Aveline. "At least she would be kept away from this city's influences. That apostate tended to her wounds, did he not? That's just what this family needs: _more _magic fluttering about, causing more problems." She caressed Hawke's cheek and let out a deep sigh. "Look at my little girl. She looks so peaceful, doesn't she?"

Aveline moved closer to mother and daughter. "Hawke risked her life by breathing in that poison to protect Kirkwall."

"And you accompanied her, did you not? I don't see you condemned to a bed, Guard Captain. Oh, why does my darling have to suffer the most out of all of us? Why would she do this to me?" She sobbed and brushed her knuckles against her cheek. "She looks so much like her father—what would he say if he saw her now, like this? Sleeping for two days, not even waking up for meals. Pale as a corpse."

"Anders's magic nullified the poison's effects on her," Aveline stated, hoping to lighten Leandra's somber mood. "He says she will make a full recovery, but to rest for the remainder of the week."

"The rest of the week?" Leandra gasped. "Why, that hardly leaves her enough time to prepare for dinner with Raydin Bran!"

"If I may, Mistress Hawke. I think she'd be better off not attending the dinner, until we're certain she is in top condition."

Leandra clicked her tongue and placed her hands on her hips. "And what good would that do? The people of Kirkwall are familiar with seeing my Marian out and about; what would they think if she didn't make any appearances? It might draw the wrong conclusion and attention as to exactly _why _she is bed-ridden."

"It will make the people realize that your daughter means business when it comes to Kirkwall's safety," Aveline said shortly.

"And why exactly is she in this condition, Guard Captain? She was defending the Qunari."

"She was defending Kirkwall!" Aveline's cheeks flushed with frustration and anger as Leandra shook her head.

"By serving the Qunari. Do you think the Amells need people to think we're Qunari-lovers? It's bad enough that the Viscount knows that my daughter is on speakable terms with them. Any chance of her finding a suitor would be squashed if they thought she supported them!"

Aveline opened her mouth to defend Hawke, but Leandra shushed her with a wave of her hand. "I've heard enough, Guard Captain. I am responsible for my daughter's future, and I plan on cementing it. Any words you have to say only tear at this old lady's heart."

Aveline offered a curt nod, her blood boiling. She stormed out of the Hawke Estate, not sparing Bodahn or Sandal a glance. Orana jumped when Aveline slammed the door closed behind her.

Leandra knelt by the bed and tucked her daughter's hair behind her ear. "Don't worry, my little girl. Mother will take care of everything."

* * *

It was three days before Hawke woke up, and it was hardly a pretty awakening.

She had gorged herself with oatmeal, courtesy of Orana, and had bathed immediately afterward. Dried blood still coated her hair, and knowing that it had been like that for five days made her stomach churn. Her side and calf still stung from the mercenary's blade, but the wounds had healed well and only left faint scars.

Despite her mother's prodding and insisting that she stay in bed, Hawke refused. There was not a chance in all of Thedas that she was going to stay in the estate with her mother clucking at her with dear, precious Thomas there to encouraging her.

It sickened her that Thomas was the first sight she saw after opening her eyes. He was lurched forward in a chair by her bedside, staring at her with eyes that were _too _concerned to be genuine. He immediately took her hand in his and brushed aside her hair.

It sickened her. There was only one man allowed to treat her like a daughter, and that man would forever be Malcolm Hawke, not this _Thomas _fellow. He didn't even look like a Thomas.

Hawke sighed and descended the staircase once she was clothed in her casual finery. There was a racket coming from the kitchen, and from hearing Bodahn's voice above the clangs of pots and pans, she could only guess that Sandal was once again trying to help Orana cook.

"Now, Sandal, let the nice lady bake for Lady Hawke," Bodahn said to his son. Sandal beamed at Orana and clapped his hands.

Hawke turned the corner into the kitchen, Orana's second favorite part of the estate, the first being her private quarters. She soured when she saw her mother standing over the dwarves, her arms crossed and an annoyed frown etched into her brow. And _Thomas _was there with her.

She tried to slip past the kitchen unnoticed, but Leandra chose that exact moment to turn her head to the entryway. Her frown deepened when she saw her daughter.

"And just where do you think you're going, Marian?" she demanded.

Hawke took in a breath and steadied her nerves. "To the Viscount. No doubt he would like to know what the Qunari wanted of me. I should report my success in stopping the criminals who stole from them."

Leandra shook her head. "I won't have you traipsing out and about. You need your rest—Maker knows you do."

"Mother, I'm a grown woman and have been in that bed for five days now. I think my body has had enough rest."

"Your mother's right, Marian," Thomas said. He put an arm around Leandra, and both of them wore concerned expressions. "She's been sick to her stomach over you. Can you find it in your heart to listen to this one simple request? We can send Bodahn to report to the Viscount. You shouldn't strain yourself."

Hawke looked at her mother, then at the dwarves and Orana. The poor elven girl was hunched in the far corner, a plate hugged to her chest as she fearfully eyed Mistress Hawke.

_Or should I call her Mistress Amell? _Hawke absently thought.

Hawke looked back at Thomas, noticing for the first time a cold tinge to his light blue eyes that she hadn't seen before. She capitulated. "Only for today. But tomorrow—"

"Splendid," Leandra said. She and Thomas shared a grin. "Tomorrow evening is your dinner with Seneschal Bran's son. I've finished hemming your dress, Marian; please try it on so that I can make any final adjustments."

"Tomorrow I need to report—"

"And Orana," Leandra said as she walked over to the girl, "fetch the Orlesian parcel that was delivered to us yesterday. I believe the heels have finally arrived."

Hawke stared in disbelief as Leandra shooed Orana out of the kitchen, shortly followed by Bodahn and Sandal. Once it was just Hawke and Thomas left, he gave her a grin that he thought was reassuring, but it died when Hawke glared at him.

"Your mother is only looking out for your well-being, Marian," he said. He cleared his throat when Hawke's face didn't soften a bit.

"And I'm sure I'm completely unable to fend for myself," she said, giving Thomas a sour look.

"Your bed-ridden condition spoke for itself, Marian." He smiled when she didn't have any words to spit at him. "You have nothing to fear. Leandra has already made all the preparations tomorrow—marvelous woman, isn't she?—and we will both be there at your side to support you through this. Raydin Bran seems like a fine fellow."

Hawke grunted. "Thank you for already making my opinions for me, Thomas. It means _so _much to me, knowing that you're concerned about my life."

He sighed and folded his arms across his chest. "I just don't want to see your mother upset. She means a lot to me, and it would be most unfortunate to have a frown mar her face. That beautiful face..."

Hawke frowned at the distant look in his eyes. She cleared her throat, bringing him out of his reverie. "You should know that there is more to my family than mere looks, Thomas."

He smiled and inclined his head. "I am sure that Raydin Bran will be swept off his feet by your charming personality."

* * *

Hawke quietly slipped into her robes and holstered her staff on her back. It was early enough in the day for the rest of the Hawke Estate to still be asleep, but late enough that a certain dwarf wouldn't be. She sent a silent prayer to the Maker that her prison time in the Hawke Estate was at an end.

While Leandra said that she had to dine with Raydin Bran in the evening, she never said that she couldn't be out and about before then. Hawke smiled and adjusted the collar of her robes.

Last night had been torture. Again, she had to endure dinner with _Thomas. _If he wasn't wearing those fake smiles directed at her, he was staring at her mother. Maker, she wanted him and his steely, beady eyes gone already.

_What does Mother even see in him? He's nothing like Father._

Quippie looked up from the tangle of sheets on the bed. He whimpered and wiggled his stubby tail when Hawke pat him on the head. They both had slept soundly after dinner, and Hawke had to admit to herself that she was still a little weak in the legs. But staying one more day in Leandra's prison was not an option.

"And having one more night with Thomas as company would be dreadful, wouldn't it, boy?" She smiled when he growled and bared his teeth. "Even you don't like Thomas. Good boy." She scratched him behind the ears before sneaking out of her house. He whined and clambered off the bed to follow after her.

She looked back at him and sighed. "Oh, alright, you can come with. But _shh." _He lolled his tongue out and gave her hand a lick. Together, they tiptoed out of the Hawke Estate and made their way to the Hanged Man.

* * *

"Well, I'll say that it's a relief to see you still alive after these six days of absence." Varric snorted and took a gulp from his tankard. "I'm surprised your mother hasn't killed you with boredom yet."

"As if house arrest wasn't bad enough," Hawke sighed as she slouched in her chair. "Now I'm to finally meet the seneschal's son. After tonight, I will officially be _ruined." _

Varric laughed and shook his head. "You could always scare him away, Hawke. Maybe roast one of his Orlesian's boots? It'd be such a tragedy."

She rolled her eyes and frowned when Quippie trotted over to Varric with a deck of cards in his mouth. The dwarf chuckled and took the slobbery deck from the dog. "It's too early, my friend." Quippie whined and sat back on his haunches. His ears fell and he nudged Varric with his nose. "But, if you're up for it later tonight, I'm sure Rivaini would love to join us."

Quippie barked and wagged his tail.

"I'm not sure if I should be horrified that you taught my dog how to play cards, or if I should be impressed," Hawke said. She shook her head when Quippie lied down and contented himself with chewing on the leg of the table. "But I think Quips will have to decline."

Her dog growled from beneath the table.

"I need him at the estate. Having him with me will give me some encouragement. And I'm sure Quips would love to chew on Raydin Bran, wouldn't you, old boy?"

He barked happily and slobbered on her shoe in response.

"A shame," Varric said. "Even Broody said he'd be down later for Wicked Grace. About time, too. Haven't seen him since the poison incident. But, I suppose we could make some time later for your dog."

Hawke frowned and picked at the table. "He... he's been in his mansion for six days?" _Not surprising, in fact._

Varric nodded. "Rivaini's been checking up on him. Don't you worry, Hawke. Our favorite brooding elf is still brooding and elven. If he wasn't, well. That would be something, wouldn't it?"

She hummed and inhaled. "I'll check up on everyone after I report to the Viscount. I still have to thank Anders for curing the poison and see if Aveline's alright."

"And the elf?"

Hawke bobbed her head up and down. "I'll check on Merrill, too. Maybe pay that old elven couple a visit while I'm at the Alienage."

Varric sighed. "Not that elf, Hawke. Fenris. Broody. Whatever you call him."

"Bane of my existence."

He held his hands out. "All I'm saying is that maybe a 'thank you' is in order after he rescued your hide from those mercenaries? Maybe even get him to come out of his mansion more?"

She frowned and tilted her head to the side. "I'm not sure me invading in his privacy is a good idea. Not if I don't want a fist sticking out of my chest, thank you."

"Just consider it, Hawke. You may not think so, but I think it's high time to smooth things over from what happened in the Holding Caves. You know, break the ice, form an agreement of some sort. And one that doesn't involve both of you hating each other."

Hawke stood and patted her thigh for Quippie to follow her. "I'll consider it," she said over her shoulder before leaving the Hanged Man.

* * *

The Viscount had been pleased with her success to stop the culprits responsible for the _saar-qamek _outbreak, but distraught at the news that his own people were trying to take matters into their own hands to stop the Qunari. He had thanked and dismissed her looking every one of his years, and she had pledged that should he ever need her services again, she was only a message away.

She hadn't a chance to speak with Aveline. When she entered the barracks, she saw her busy instructing her guards in combat training. Aveline had seen her and nodded at her with a smile before waving her away.

Hawke moved through the Hightown market, weaving her way through the early shoppers. She moved to the side of the stairs leading to Lowtown as a small group of merchants hauled their wares. She grabbed Quippie's fur to make sure he wouldn't go bounding after a scrumptious cake or pie. Slowly, she made her way past the merchants, periodically having to stop and wait for more of them to pass.

Just when she snaked past the last of them, she stumbled backward as she collided with someone.

"I'm sorry—"

"I beg your pardon—"

Quippie nudged her back and leg to keep her from falling, and she murmured a promise to buy him a nice juicy bone later. She looked up at the person she had run into and was shocked to see the spitting image of Seneschal Bran standing before her.

He seemed equally shocked as well, but was the first to recover. He smiled and eyed her up and down once he realized who she was. "Serah Hawke. What a pleasure it is to see you so soon before our planned dinner."

"You must be Raydin Bran," Hawke said with a smile just as fake as his. Quippie growled quietly and rubbed his neck against Hawke's thigh. "It's a... delight to finally meet you."

"I've heard many things about you, Serah Hawke. My father has told me much. I do hope that you'll be able to enlighten me during supper."

_Probably told you how much he despises me, _Hawke thought. "I'm sure that will not be a problem, Raydin. Until then." She smiled and tried to walk down the stairs into Lowtown, but he moved in front of her so that he cornered her against the railing.

Quippie snarled and bared his teeth, his hackles rising as he waited for his mistress to give him the command to rip this fool apart. All he needed was one word...

"May I just say, Serah Hawke," Raydin said as he gripped the railing on either side of her. She wrinkled her nose and tried not to sneeze at the obsessive amount of cologne he wore. "It has been my honor to have met such an enchanting woman on this fine morning." His eyes trailed down her face to the neckline of her robes, and beyond that to her bosom. She rolled her eyes. _Of course the son would be just as vulgar as the father. _

Raydin Bran opened his mouth to say something, but yelped as something heavy stepped on his foot. He hopped away from Hawke, cursing beneath his breath and cradling his ruined Orlesian boot. He scrunched his face up at the muddy paw print on the polished leather.

Quippie panted smugly by his mistress. Raydin glared at the dog. "Oh, you have a _mabari," _he spat.

Hawke nodded. "Don't worry, he doesn't bite." Raydin gave the dog a doubtful look. "Unless I tell him to, of course."

"Of course," Raydin hissed. "I take it he won't be joining us tonight?"

"That depends," Hawke said sweetly. "My mabari is very good at finding and stopping distractions. We wouldn't want your attention to wave or your eyes to wander, would we, Serah Bran?"

Raydin Bran flushed pink before straightening himself. He cleared his throat and lifted his chin. "Of course, Serah Hawke. Such qualities are admirable, doubly so in a dog. Good day." He hurried off, daring only once to look back at her.

She wiggled her fingers at him and huffed when he was out of sight. She knelt and held her mabari's face. "I think you will join us at dinner. You can sit right next to Raydin, how 'bout that?"

Quippie barked and slobbered her cheek. She smiled and pat him on the head before looking down. She frowned. If Raydin Bran was enraptured by her curves, then she knew someone else's cleavage that would entirely _enchant _him.

* * *

"But what's wrong with the sheets, Isabela? Oh, wait, I know. It's the stains, isn't it? I never know where they come from or why this roof keeps leaking. Maybe I have termites."

Isabela plucked at the sheets on Merrill's bed. "Kitten, sheets are very important in a woman's bedroom."

"It isn't the color, is it? I wanted a pale green, but all they had were four different shades of grey."

"There are three things about a woman that men pay attention to, sweet thing. One: her pretty face. Two: her curves. Three: her bedsheets. Bedsheets describe a woman in more ways than one, you know. They tell if she's modest, playful... seductive."

Merrill's face went red and she clasped her hands to her mouth. "But I'm none of those things and I can't ever see myself having sheets like that—"

"Oh, but I know a certain Templar who would _love _to see you in playful, seductive bedsheets," Isabela purred.

Hawke raised her eyebrow as she let herself into Merrill's home. "All I heard was 'Templar' and 'bedsheets'. Please don't tell me you're stuffing Merrill's brain full of nonsense about my brother."

"Hawke!" Merrill gasped, blushing even brighter. "N-n-no, there are no thoughts of nonsense about your brother in my brain—at least I don't think there are."

"Mmm, once my job is over, there will be plenty naked Carvers frolicking in that innocent mind of yours, Kitten."

"Pretending I didn't hear that," Hawke said. She rubbed her forehead and shook her head. "Anyway. I'm glad I found you here, Isabela."

"Most people say that," the pirate said with a lewd smile.

"Yes, well, I need your help with something."

"Almost all of them say that, too," she purred.

Merrill looked back and forth between the two women. "Is this... this isn't something dirty, is it? I'm afraid I don't follow."

Hawke shook her hands. "No, Merrill, nothing like that."

"Oh," Isabela pouted. She smiled and sauntered over to Hawke. "Now what could Hawke want from Isabela?"

"I actually need a favor, Isabela..."


End file.
